Page 40 of The Billionaire I Left Behind

The rumble of an engine outside cuts me off. I freeze. My fingers tighten around the pen as I hear the unmistakable crunch of heavy boots on gravel.

No. Not now. Claire glances toward the door as it swings open. “Wow, is that who I think it is?” I don’t have to turn around to know it’s Bryan.

The sound of his steps hits me before I even see him. The weight of his presence in the room shifts the air, drawing every nerve in my body tight.

"Hello everyone," he greets, and Stella and the others happily greets him. Buddy comes to my side wanting a rub which I give him along with some treats from my pocket. I try my best to ignore my racing heart.

“Someone told me you needed some help around here,” Bryan says, voice calm, casual. Too casual. Like nothing’s wrong. Like he didn’t say those words. Just platonic. History he won’t repeat. She is a disaster waiting to happen.

I grip the edge of the table, fighting the irrational sting in my chest.Keep it together, Emma.

Stella smirks, tossing a wrench in his direction. “Figured we can put your money where your mouth is. Think you can handle a few loose hinges and busted locks?”

Bryan catches the wrench one-handed, barely sparing her a glance. His eyes are on me. I hate that I feel them.

That stupid tug in my gut, that awareness of how his t-shirt clings just enough to broad shoulders, how his jeans fit like they were made for him. It shouldn’t matter. But it does.

"Sure, I can handle that."

I turn back to the flyers, feigning disinterest. “Thanks,” I say stiffly, shuffling papers.

Silence stretches between us. I feel him hesitate. Then he moves, heading toward the back where the supply closets and cage doors need fixing.

I let out a slow breath, hands still shaking slightly. It’s nothing, I tell myself. Nothing. Just him helping out, that’s all. Just me focusing on this, on the clinic, on my future.

Still, I can’t help but feel his eyes flicker back toward me before he disappears down the hall. And I hate that I notice.

***

The soft bubbling of soup fills the quiet kitchen at home, the scent of rosemary and garlic curling into the air. The dim light sways overhead, casting flickering shadows against the half-painted walls. My hand tightens around the wooden spoon as I stir, gaze locked on the slow swirl of broth.

I should feel lighter after today, after seeing the fundraiser plans coming together, after getting through another shift at the shelter. But all I feel is a dull ache pressing at my chest.

One month. One month gone. Two left to go.

The thought makes my stomach clench. Two months until the will’s terms are fulfilled. Two months until I can figure out what happens next. Two months until I won’t have to share space with a man who despite my best efforts still affects me more than he should.

I push harder at the soup, trying to drown out the gnawing memories of today: the way Bryan showed up at the shelter, the way his eyes flicked toward me more times than I cared to admit, the way the air in that room shifted when he walked in.

The numbers flash in my head, $2,250 left. Barely enough to scrape by for another month. I need to push harder. Take onmore shifts with Doc Wheeler in the next town, reach out to more donors, keep my head down and more focused.

The door creaks, and my breath catches despite myself. His feet scuff against the wooden floor, his suit jacket rustling as he shrugs it off. I don’t turn. I don’t need to. I already know it’s Bryan.

Buddy’s tail thumps against the floor, his lazy greeting met with a quiet, gruff, “Hey, boy.” The deep rumble of his voice slides over my skin, as familiar as the ocean waves crashing against the cliffs outside. My grip tightens on the spoon.

I hear him move closer. The warmth of his presence settles just a few feet behind me, close enough that the air feels heavier, charged. My pulse betrays me, a tiny stutter against my ribs, and I hate that I notice.

“How’ve you been?” His voice is lower than usual, softer, like he’s trying not to push.

I force a shrug, keeping my focus on the pot. “Fine.”

The spoon clacks against the side of the pan, betraying the tension curling inside me. The silence that follows is thick, stretching between us like a taut rope. I don’t look at him. I won’t.

But I feel him watching. His footsteps shift, the faintest movement that tells me he’s stepped even closer. “You sure about that? It seems something is up.” His tone is careful, unreadable.

My stomach twists. I hate the way his concern sounds like it means something. Like he still sees me. “Nothing’s up,” I say too quickly, too sharp. I can hear it in my own voice, how brittle it sounds. How obvious it is that something is very much up.

Bryan doesn’t move; doesn’t let it go. I feel his presence settle behind me, steady and unmoving, like he’s waiting for me to crack.

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